It is in that fate

It is in that fate to, for a moment, shudder in an all-dark void. The streetscape renounces its caresses of the sun. The sun has sunk completely now. In an asynchronous dappling across the high plains, the street lamps rise out of the dim slowly towards the east end of the avenue. There is no light on the streets now. The sun has night. The night enfolded the buildings in a process by which the grey bloomed with dark dapples. I ride further forward. The walls are increasingly black. The pock-marked sealse of death. In this space between the sun and the streetlamp the buildings can sleep, even cognizant of the errors giving onto this respite. It is as the night has plaited its voiding capes across my surfaces that it feels a certain humility and self-conciousness. For as it now stands, almost fully erased from the continuity of the city, it comes forth with even more presence. The lawn has retained its silvery cloak, the sky swells with a livid orange haze, and the lawn draws accents of purple into its texture, and sweeping past, in the center, a pure black void shaped like on of those other buildings I passed. It displays its wasted gift of erasure with an iconic pronounciation that would seem proud if it, as an object, existed. Yet, in its impoverished unbeing, it has been erased into existence.

The silhouettes of everything risen above the horizon were full of night, yet framed by an apparitional night. Orange skies vibrate with a chapped-faced anxiety above some distant city. She is moving parallel to the streetscape, now she stops. The profile of a low, broad, gable, hirsute with vents, antennae, and electrical wites can be seen over her right shoulder very clearly against the luminous night sky. I am magnetized by and into this home shaped hole. Through it I can see only blackness and within me looking into it only and emptiness in the shape of an apartment home. I risk veering off my course, my track. I shut my eyes. Now the shape of the void, the apartment block, is masked on her retina. The shape in her closed eyes is white. On her retina, deep in the center of her current head lies an apparitional apartment home, masking out the full vision of her eyelid. The shape approaches chastity in its wholeness not found in the real night. It is in this solidity that I find goodness, a vessel of truth that does not threaten to envelop the sky and the pedestrians. It floats before the sky, a bastion against the end on some Idahoan plain. Also, within the white, there are things and places: teakettles, toile armchairs, silk floral arrangements, braids, low-lit dens, closets under stairs, hiding spots under dining room tables, candlelit tables, windows that face the sky. The background, as distant to me as the sky, against the inside of my eyelid remains that terminal orange. All this held at a virginal distance. The wise nothingness of that white house, that shape, will remain a screen to me, held out inside me to receive me projected behind it, from further in my head where shimmering grey desires are domesticated and applied back to my eye. In that white shape I see ajar doors and rugs lay upon dry floors meeting wood walls.

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